Is it just ME

Or do you feel compelled to lie about your life too?

SOMEWHERE in a parallel universe you’ll find another version of me. She works nights, lives in a house full of people with lusty appetites and throws endless parties.

It’s a life I’ve invented, as I feel compelled to serially lie to people in service industries in order for them not to think less of me.

Take the Ocado driver who delivered my shopping at lunchtime when I was still in my pyjamas. ‘I work nights and I’ve only just woken up,’ I fibbed, so he didn’t judge me to be a slovenly slob.

He couldn’t have cared less. ‘ Right . . . they’ve substituted your nectarines for peaches, that OK?’ was his bemused response.

My favourite takeaway is an Indian banquet with enough food to feed the street. When the Deliveroo driver arrives, I shout: ‘Food’s here!’ to no one. Can’t have this perfect stranger thinking I’m greedy.

I also can’t have cashiers thinking I drink too much.

When a big Deliveroo order arrives, I shout out to no one: ‘Food’s here!’

When the lady on the till scanning my numerous bottles of wine asked: ‘Oh, are you having a party?’ I said yes, then went into elaborate detail about the non-existent event. For weeks afterwards I avoided her till, as I’d completely forgotten what I’d told her.

Keeping track of your porkies is key, or you’ll come a cropper when your hairdresser asks, ‘How was Rio?’ after you invented an exotic trip on your previous visit. Everyone else seemed to be heading off on holiday (although, come to think of it, they were probably lying, too) and I didn’t want to be the dullard with no plans.

I always vow to be honest when I’m asked if I have anything exciting planned that weekend. But, before you know it, the fibs fly.

The most thrilling thing to happen last weekend was a trip to Argos to buy a looroll holder. But you can bet that later I’ll be telling the manicurist about my day at the races.